The harsh Recife sun reverberated off the whitewashed walls of the Palace of the Two Towers, making the air shimmer. At the main entrance, Governor Bento Vidal, a young man in impeccable attire, received his new Captain-Major. A fine film of sweat already coated his forehead, and the salty smell of the sea breeze mixed with the dust from the street.

  "Good afternoon, Mr. Caetano Velho," Bento greeted, extending his hand. "I've heard good things about your work as a bandeirante in the southern captaincies. I hope you can help us solve our… particular problem."

  The man before him was the antithesis of his own elegance. Caetano Velho was pot-bellied, dressed in worn leather clothes, and his long, graying beard seemed to harbor the dust of a thousand roads. At his waist, a practical sword; in his hand, a dark wooden cane with a gem embedded in the top. But what was most striking was his entourage.

  Behind him, a small group stood motionless: two Black men, an Indigenous man with a piercing gaze, and a Black woman, all dressed in functional travel clothes of good quality, carrying magical weapons with a naturalness that denoted experience. They were far from the submissive appearance of slaves.

  The bandeirante shook the governor's hand with a firm, surprisingly calloused grip.

  "The welcome is appreciated, Governor, but save the thanks. Portugal is paying me well to clean up this mess."

  His voice was deep and direct, without a trace of the rustic accent Bento had expected. He looked up at the blazing sun.

  "Besides, this time of year is a furnace. Couldn't we continue this conversation in the shade?"

  The statement surprised the governor. He expected an arrogant old hick, but this man… is different. Of course, it's just a first impression, he pondered internally.

  "Of course, of course, let's head inside," Bento agreed, leading the group into the palace.

  The contrast was immediate. The thick masonry walls kept the rooms cool, and the heavy outdoor air gave way to a lighter atmosphere. They headed to the governor's office, where the coolness was almost supernatural. In the center, the enslaved woman Márcia stood with her hands raised, wearing white gloves with an icy gem set between them. A thin, bluish frost snaked from her fingers, absorbing the room's heat and keeping pitchers of drinks shrouded in icy vapor. The silence was broken only by the faint clinking of ice cubes in glasses.

  Bento sat in his high-backed chair, and Caetano occupied the leather chair opposite him. Márcia, with silent movements, served two drinks on the jacaranda wood table that separated the two men.

  "Care for a drink, Captain-Major?" Bento offered.

  Caetano adjusted himself in the chair, which creaked under his weight.

  "Just juice, Governor. I don't like to drink alcohol when discussing business."

  Márcia served him a glass of cashew juice, the ice cubes clinking with a crystalline sound.

  "Forgive my bluntness, Mr. Caetano, but I'll get straight to the point. The situation is worrying. The quilombolas are us—"

  Caetano raised a hand slightly, interrupting him.

  "I also prefer frankness, Governor. But first, I suggest you dismiss the enslaved woman from the room. One never knows who might be a pair of eavesdropping ears."

  Bento frowned, confused, but then let out a short laugh.

  "You're quite the joker, Captain. Márcia is loyal to me. She has a good life here, much better than any captive's. She'd have no reason to betray me for some Blacks in the middle of the woods. Besides…" he looked at the woman, who had lowered her head, "...she's too fragile and cowardly for such an act of rebellion."

  He spoke loudly, as if she weren't in the room, not noticing the slight tremor in her hands as she picked up the pitcher.

  Caetano didn't laugh. Instead, he rose with a low groan from the wood of his cane and approached Márcia. His eyes, cold as steel, fixed on hers, which were an almost supernatural dark blue. She seemed to shrink, but didn't look away completely, enduring the scrutiny for a drawn-out moment.

  "I think that's enough," Bento interjected, standing up, uncomfortable. "You're scaring the poor thing. Márcia, you may withdraw. I will call you if needed."

  He really is a hick. I was expecting too much, the governor thought, irritated.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  As soon as the door closed, Caetano returned to his seat.

  "Governor, remember one thing: a person can be physically weak, but that doesn't mean they are weak in spirit. I looked right into your enslaved woman's eyes. I saw no fragility. Much less cowardice."

  "As I said," Bento retorted, his irritation growing, "the enslaved woman lives well here!"

  Caetano let out a short, dry laugh.

  "You know, Governor, there are people who would be happy locked in a luxurious room, without having to work. But there are others in this world who prefer freedom at any cost. Even if, in their freedom, they have to work from sunup to sundown and eat the bread the devil kneaded."

  Bento opened his mouth to protest, but the bandeirante continued, his voice low and laden with experience.

  "Besides, I myself have no slaves. Those people who follow me are free. They are paid well and can change jobs whenever they wish. They stay with me because I give them more benefits than they would find elsewhere. And all of them, without exception, value their freedom above all else and are strong enough to defend it."

  The governor took a deep breath, holding back a sharper retort.

  "I understand your caution, but Márcia… she would never betray me."

  Caetano picked up his glass and took a long sip of juice before continuing.

  "I've heard reports of your last foray against the quilombo. Do you think you lost just because of their new magical weapons? Weapons don't win wars. They were prepared. They knew the where and when of your attack. That means you have a rat in here. It might not be her, but there is one. The enemy knew your movements. And you… do you know theirs?"

  The words fell like a stone into the silent well of the room. Bento's face lost a bit of its color.

  "We do, but none of them commented on these weapons we found, and we didn't investigate further because… We didn't deem it necessary. After all, we dealt with the Dutch. Dealing with some Blacks wouldn't be so difficult… or so we thought."

  Caetano sighed, a sound of exhausted patience.

  "A cornered animal is always more dangerous. Fighting for land and money is very different from fighting for one's own life and freedom. You should know that. After all, you also fought the Dutch to take back your way of life."

  A fissure of understanding finally opened in Bento Vidal's mind.

  "So… how do we defeat them?"

  A more relaxed expression took over Caetano's face.

  "The same way I exterminated the Tucarano people in the south. They were fierce warriors, stole our weapons and turned them against us. No one could decimate them. Of course, no one… until I arrived."

  He leaned forward, and his voice dropped to a confessional, sinister tone.

  "I spoke with priests who tried to catechize them. I studied their language. I spoke with deserters. I sent spies to see how they lived. I learned that the Tucaranos were linked to the land in a visceral way. They cultivated a sacred forest, full of fruits and food. Every tribesperson who died was buried there, and over the body, they planted the deceased's favorite fruit or vegetable. Even in death, they continued to feed the tribe. They knew every inch of that ground. The land of their ancestors was more important to them than their own lives."

  The bandeirante paused, and his gaze became shadowy, distant. The room seemed to grow colder.

  "After learning all I could, I executed my plan. I burned their sacred forest. I used the gem of rot on the land, so nothing would ever grow again. I hunted all the animals in the region and poisoned the rivers. When they saw their land dying… their will to fight died with it. It didn't matter how good their weapons were or how brave their warriors were. Without the will to live, nothing remained."

  He ran his fingers through his beard, and an almost imperceptible smile appeared on his lips.

  "You know, I had a painting made of the last Tucarano I killed. To immortalize that moment."

  Bento felt a chill run down his spine, a genuine shiver that had nothing to do with Márcia's magic. Caetano, however, drank the rest of his juice as if nothing were wrong.

  "Of course, with the quilombolas the story is different. They have other values. Community. Family. That freedom we spoke of. We need to study them, find their weak point, and then eliminate them. I suspect your spies have already been identified as spies by the quilombolas. To deceive them, we'll need a more elaborate plan, and my men and women will be essential for that.”

  "And how do we infiltrate them without raising suspicion?" asked Bento, now completely engaged.

  "It's simple," said Caetano, with the coolness of a strategist. "We send my men to an engenho, as if they were new slaves. Then, we orchestrate the death of that engenho's master. They, as 'liberators' and being Black, will be welcomed with open arms into the quilombo. Even better if they themselves kill the master. Nothing breaks distrust more than a common enemy slain."

  Bento swallowed dryly, the sweet taste of the juice turning sour in his mouth.

  "But didn't you yourself say that you can't trust people who seek freedom above all else? How can you trust these… Blacks?"

  "It's simple, dear Governor," Caetano replied, a cunning glint in his eyes. "I don't trust them. I merely give them a decent life and the freedom to choose. It just so happens that, if they want to keep that good life and that freedom, I am their best and only option. I chose them carefully. They are people who put themselves first, above everything and everyone. Someone who would kill their own comrade if it gave them an advantage. What kind of life would they have in a quilombo? None. And they… well, they aren't the kind of people who fight for the freedom of others. They fight only for their own."

  It seems that for this man, no one's life is sacred, Bento thought, horrified and fascinated at the same time. But my hands are tied. I'm not popular among the plantation owners, and this plan… this plan would work. I just need to find an indebted plantation owner and give him this 'gift'. Then, I can seize his assets to cover the captaincy's debts.

  The decision crystallized on his face.

  "Very well, Captain-Major. We will proceed with your plan."